


Vanilla Twilight

by kjstark



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M, because that's his thing lately, neymessi is implied in the father-son relationship it is, sad!Ney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-23
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4189887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kjstark/pseuds/kjstark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Should’ve he left? Should’ve he stayed? He can see the headlines; he can see the turmoil of internet comments about how he’s not a real leader, about how he’s the most important image of Brazil’s current squad, about how they are going to lose without him.<br/>He’s heard it all before.<br/>And that’s the thing that stings the longest, that’s the thing that makes him want to break and throw and punch.<br/>They fucking <em>robbed</em> him again. They <em>ripped</em> him from yet again finishing off his <em>damn</em> job. His dream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanilla Twilight

**Author's Note:**

> I got inspired listening to Owl City's Vanilla Twilight and wrote this in literally two hours. It's full of misspelling mistakes bc english is not my first language. 
> 
> This is set after Neymar's ban from the Copa America 2015 tournament due to misbehaviour.

Neymar’s mercilessly tapping on his phone, replying to Leo, giving him empty answers to all his empty words. He knows every single thing he’s telling him: about how there will come a next time, about how life is never fair, about how he’s still young, about needing to keep himself down sometimes. Neymar loves the Argentinean like any kōhai would love their senpai. Messi feels a need to give back to the universe what once was given to him by Ronaldinho, through Neymar, and he will always appreciate that.

He types something about CONMEBOL being the dirty entity it is, to which Leo replies with a shrugging emoij, and reminds Neymar that he is not the shy, cold man media keeps trying to tell everyone he is.

But Leo Messi is not what Neymar needs; Barcelona is not what Neymar needs.

He looks hopelessly around the empty airport station. The selecao’s selected staff man is calling someone, he’s been talking to someone for over an hour now. Neymar sighs heavily and bites the inside of his cheek.

Should’ve he left? Should’ve he stayed? He can see the headlines; he can see the turmoil of internet comments about how he’s not a real leader, about how he’s the most important image of Brazil’s current squad, about how they are going to lose without him.

He’s heard it all before.

And that’s the thing that stings the longest, that’s the thing that makes him want to break and throw and punch.

They fucking _robbed_ him again. They _ripped_ him from yet again finishing off his _damn_ job. His dream.

He shifts uncomfortably on the metallic chair of the airport private waiting room, pushing thoughts away. Some calmer moments late, he remembers Thiago’s steady speech:

“Leave if you want to, stay if you want to. I won’t let them make you hurt your head, or injure yourself, solely out of some need to make you some sort of example. They already took the chance of you playing football to do that”.

“Do you want me to leave?” because they had had a rough patch. And this whole thing about Neymar being the leader kept messing them all up.

“Don’t be ridiculous. We all know who’s in charge here,” he joked a little, because it was Thiago, and Thiago was never not honest. “You know you leaving it’s the last thing I want.”

“But it’s not the end of the world?” Neymar mocked, looking down. Thiago placed his hand on his shoulder.

“Only the actual end of the world is the end of the world. Hey,” he called for him. “There’s no words I can give you. They’ll all be pure bullshit. Just like this whole situation is. But if you believe me to be your captain, for once in your life, Ney, listen to me: do what’s gonna put you at ease. Not what everyone wants you to do, or what everyone thinks you should do. Do what’s gonna make it easier for you to sleep at nights”.

And because of that, Neymar grabbed his stuff, and off he went. Dani slowly nodded, whispering something about getting back to Colombians for yet screwing him over again. Willian shook his head in helpless but understanding shame. Philippe hugged him, and said ‘next time, bro’. David promised to win it for him.

It was all like some twisted deja-vu, except that his back didn’t hurt like hell this time.

And Oscar wasn’t here to look at him with red, empty eyes.

It wasn’t until he tapped on his iTunes to listen to some music, to brighten himself up, that he started thinking about him.

It wasn’t ‘til that old Owl City song started playing that he started longing for his teammate.

Fact was: Neymar needed Oscar.

Neymar needed Oscar because Oscar understands him. More than knowing he hates when his food is touched before he tastes it, more than knowing he sleeps on the right side of the bed, more than knowing he watches food shows to try to learn to cook things for the people he cares about on their special day, Oscar knows how to read him in the field.

Oscar pays attention to every little thing when he is playing. But out of everything, he pays the most attention to Neymar. When he’s missed a pass, when he’s gonna trick an opponent, when he gets fouled.

When he doubts, when he is sure.

Then it hits him like a rock, like it didn’t when he first found out Oscar had an injury and couldn’t attend the tournament: they were supposed to do it right this time. They were supposed to take on the world together this time.

So that’s yet another thing that was taken from Neymar, unfairly and unchangeably.

Suddenly it’s not anger he feels but despair. An immense desire to drop to floor and cry for his mom and never get up from there. A desire to be held and to be soothed.

A desire to be understood and protected.

“I need to change my flight ticket,” he burst as soon as the staff guy sat next to him.

“So you wanna go back to Barcelona, then?” he asked, after startling for a sec.

“Can you change my flight or not?” he tried for a polite tone, but it came as rushed and needy.

“I mean, we had everything arranged for you to land in Sao Pau—“

“Can you or not?” he asked again, closing his eyes. The guy sighed. “I’m sorry, I just...I don’t really wanna go home, yet, to either homes,” he explained.

“So where do you wanna go?” the guy asked, trying not to stab him with his eyes.

“London,” he answered. The guy gave him an open-eyed look, almost as if Neymar had asked to go to Pluto, but the forward bit his lower lip, almost as pleading.

“Fine, lemme go check,” he said, getting up again.

* * *

 

As it turned out, not everything was against Neymar. The sooner flight of the rest of the day was to London. He was meant to go to Sao Paulo in an hour, now he has to wait 40 minutes to take his flight to London instead.

“Hmm, sir,” Neymar looked at him like he just licked a lemon, the guy rolled his eyes “Neymar, then?” he nodded. “Can I know exactly why you decided to go London instead? There’s no one waiting for us there. If anyone sees you, we’re gonna be doomed,” he said, concerned.

“There’s something I need to do before I can focus on other stuff, isn’t that what they told me? To focus on my other stuff. Pre-season, and all that jazz?” he asked, raising a brow at the guys way.

It took Neymar 14 hours to reach his destiny. Fourteen hours for his excitement to cool down, fourteen hours for his anger to turn into bitterness, fourteen hours for his sadness to turn into loneliness.

As he breathed in London’s cold air, he felt his chest closing tightly.

He went to the airport’s nearer ATM and got some cash, for himself and for his tag-along nanny.

“Arrange us to leave tomorrow early, I won’t take too long. I’ll pay you extra, I’m sorry I’m being an ass,” he told him, handing him money.

“Will you tell me where are you, in case I get called and asked?” Neymar moved his head to one side.

“I’m doing personal stuff. I’ll have my phone on, tell them to call me if they want. Go meet London, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Today,” he corrected, tiredly.

Neymar looked down at his phone, somewhere near 3 a.m. _Damn_.

He took a cab and tapped on his phone again. _Play_.

_The stars lean down to kiss you and I lie awake and miss you. Pour me a heavy dose of atmosphere._

Neymar takes a rugged piece of paper with an address from his wallet and gives it to the driver. No need for words, his English still sucks.

He rubs his eyes, waking himself up and looks out the window.

_The silence isn't so bad 'til I look at my hands and feel sad, ‘cause the spaces between my fingers are right where yours fit perfectly._

He looked at his intertwined fingers and separated them, bit his lower lip and adjusted himself on his seat. London was as beautiful as it ever had been.

It had been three months since he’d seen him. The last thing he said to Oscar was probably something about Game Of Thrones, not even goodbye, because they’ve never been good at saying goodbye.

And there’s always so much to tell Oscar, it’s like a condition: not being able to shut up when Oscar’s near. Because air gets lighter when he’s with him, life gets easier, days get brighter, football gets more beautiful.

When he enters the building, the manager already knows him. Not only because he is a world class player but also because he’s been there before. Neymar waves him and goes inside the elevator.

He walks out of it and suddenly his whole plan crumbles, his heart is rushing in panic and he wants to run away. Oscar’s suite apartment is on the left side of the corridor. A corridor that looks quiet, and calmed, and perfect the way it is. Probably just like Oscar must be right now.

Neymar wants to cry out of pure frustration, because needing your best friend shouldn’t feel this hard.

He falls to the floor right by the door, unable to disturb the peace of one of the people he cares about to the most. His hands rise to his face and he rubs, roughly.

What if he’s with someone else? What if he gets mad? What if he doesn’t care?

And he bites his lower lip, hard, because what the hell was he thinking? Oscar has a life of his own; he has a daughter, a club that’s counting on him for pre-season.

But he’s selfish, and helpless, and needy. So he taps on Oscar’s phone by the door and swallows. He can hear it ringing through the wall, and it’s so like Oscar to leave his phone in the living room, forgotten.

It rings for some moments and then Neymar hears the clicks of lights being turned on, and Oscar’s tired “Hello?”.

And Neymar’s whole body cringes, like he’s being swallowed deeper by the carpeted floor of the corridor. He’s missed that voice, and it’s hitting him so hard how much.

“Who’s this?” Oscar almost yawns to the speaker, and Neymar has to put his own hand over his mouth, because he wants to cry and laugh at the same time.

“Hey,” it’s a whisper that comes instead, strangled and suffocated. They were supposed to be happy by now, almost a year ago they were standing in front of each other, saying goodbye, making promises that now have to be put on hold, too.

Neymar finally understood Oscar’s feelings back then. His heart closed even tighter in his chest.

“Ney?” Oscar called him, voice becoming more awake. The worry on Oscar’s tone, the concern, made Neymar bit his lower lip until it hurt. And he felt his eyes watering up.

He needed him so much.

“Are you okay?” Oscar’s voice was normal now, awake, steady. Neymar shook his head against the wall, and dropped the phone. “Ney? Neymar?!” he could hear Oscar yell at the dead line through the walls. As Oscar reached his history calls to call back Neymar stood and knocked on his door.

When he opened the door, Neymar smiled faintly, his olive eyes turning green-ish from the watering up. And Oscar drew the corner of his mouth up and breathed in. He pulled him by his sleeve and soothed the back of his ear as Neymar muffled words into his shoulder.

What happened? Little did he know. But Neymar was here, and that’s all that mattered.

* * *

 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, snuggling tighter to Oscar’s chest. At some point of Neymar’s relieving release they landed on Oscar’s wide couch.

“I’m going to smack your head,” he joked, because Neymar had calmed and that was one less thing to worry about. Questions, he still had many. “Ney,” he called his attention, moving his head to look over him. “What happened? Why aren’t you with the guys in Chile?”

“You don’t know,” Neymar realized. The whole thing had happen two days ago, and Oscar didn’t know.

He told him everything. About the game, about the fouls, his frustration, the messy fight, the ridiculous punishment. About how he regretted every action, but still thought they shouldn’t have done what they did. About Dunga’s stupid speeches during lunch, about how much everyone hates the way he treats Thiago, about Firmino wearing his number.

About how much he needed him.

Oscar drew invisible circles on Neymar’s arm the whole time and squeezed it when Neymar’s words would crack on his throat.

It was like if Oscar was having a dream, a dream about last year’s experience but with switched sides. Because he was the one injured and Neymar was the one who couldn’t find a match.

Oscar had fallen so silent that he didn’t notice when Neymar moved to look at him.

“Are you okay?” Neymar was asking now. Oscar moved his head from staring at nowhere to stare at Neymar.

“Did you guys pass?” he asked, suddenly.

“Yeah, quarter-finals,” Neymar replied, tone even.

“That’s good,” that’s different. Oscar without Neymar is a humiliating 7-1. Neymar without Oscar is a loss and a pass.

Oscar without Neymar is a crying, defeated and hopeless young man. Neymar without Oscar is a desperate, restless and volatile young star.

“Oscar?” he called, still looking to him.

“Ney,” he answered. Neymar rested his head on his chest back again.

“What are you thinking?” he wondered, hugging him, listening to his heartbeat.

“I’m thinking, if my voice could reach back to the past, I’d whisper in your ear, that I wish you were here,” he whispered and Neymar cracked a laugh.

That seems to be their theme song.

**Author's Note:**

> Because you know I'm all about that angst, 'bout that angst, no treble.


End file.
